The TellTale Heart of Wolf O’Donnell
by Str8shot
Summary: One shot story. Edger Allan’s Tell-Tale Heart revamped! Its my writing break...


_I took a writing break… I've been wanting to write this. I thought it was so ironic because star wolf and the tell-tale heart mix so perfectly, It should be written! Credit to Edgar Allan Poe because he wrote this, all I did was revise this, lol. R & R!_

**The Tell-Tale Heart of Wolf O'Donnell**

TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my reptilian senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in space. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old wolf. I had stuck with him through thick and thin—even during the war. He had never wronged me. He had never given me bitter insult. For his Lylat spoils I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had a missing eye, and in its place a bionic one—a horrible robotic replacement, with a pale blue reflection at the camera. Whenever my own eyes fell upon it, my cold blood ran even colder, to ice even; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old wolf, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old wolf than during the whole week before I killed him, especially during missions. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark light, all of the glass covered by wrapping, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old wolf's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been as wise as this? And then, when my scaled head was well in the room, I undid the light cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the bionic eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always off; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old wolf who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the room, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old wolf, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A clock's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly snickered at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the ship was nowhere near a shinning star of any kind) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to undo the light, when my thumb slipped upon wrapping, it fell on the floor, and the old wolf sprang up in bed, crying out—"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well, for many murders I have committed. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the Lylat slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I did not know the wolf was even CAPIBLE of fear. But I knew what the old wolf felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. The wolf had been saying to himself—"It is nothing but just an asteroid scraping the ship—it is only a cornerian bug crossing the floor," or "It is all in my god forsaken head." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little gap in the light. So I undid again it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the robot eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous reflection over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a wrench makes when enveloped in a cloth. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old wolf's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the old soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the light motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old wolf's terror must have been extreme! How fearless I thought he was! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old ship, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by Panther! The old wolf's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the light and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled happily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old wolf was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was for sure stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three metal planks from the flooring of his own room, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no furry eye—not even his perfectly enhanced one—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! Ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at my bedroom. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered Panther himself, who greeted me a good evening, with perfect suavity. A shriek had been heard by during the night; suspicion of foul play he had aroused; knowing me, inside and out, as a cold killer had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade him welcome into my room. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old wolf, I mentioned, was absent in the ship; had left in the middle of the night. I took my visitor every corner of the large room. I bade him search—search well. Eventually he asked to take him to his bedroom. I led him, at length, to the wolf's room. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired him here to rest from his night-time fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The feline was satisfied. My manner had convinced him. I was singularly at ease. He sat, and while I answered cheerily, we chatted of familiar things. We had not talked in a long time. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished him gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still he sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—SUCH A SOUND AS A WRENCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN A COTH. I gasped for breath—and yet the black feline heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would he not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the man—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! What could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the man chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible he heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! He heard!—He suspected!—He knew!—he thought he was so smooth, making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! Louder! Louder! Louder! LOUDER!—

"VILLAIN!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!"


End file.
